


Merry and Bright

by CosetteFauchelevent



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosetteFauchelevent/pseuds/CosetteFauchelevent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is Christmas if not a time to celebrate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry and Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obothyourhouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obothyourhouses/gifts).



If Sebastien Grantaire had one misgiving about the whole situation on Christmas eve, it was that he was hovering over his darling on the bed, instead of the other way around – he wanted desperately to let Marcelin take charge, feared that Marcelin was too fragile, especially after his most recent illness that had driven even the great Enjolras to bed for days, to be the receiving end of the nights more physical affections, and prayed to a god that he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t leave a single mark upon that beautiful ivory skin, would cause no pain to flash through those deep and crystalline blue eyes. 

Prayer! Ha! What a mess he had become! Marcelin Enjolras was to be his undoing. 

The fire roared in the hearth and yet Grantaire still feared a chill permeating the air of the Spartan bedroom and sending a shiver down Enjolras, a shiver not caused by his own rough and paint stained hand as he slide it up his lover’s side, eliciting a small moan, but closing his own eyes against the peculiar pain of being able to count the blonde boy’s ribs; his last illness, a chest cold that had turned to pneumonia, had nearly been Enjolras’ end, and for weeks he had languished in the illness, he and Combeferre combined had barely been able to get him to eat anything, let alone eat enough to maintain his weight and tonight, this chilly Christmas Eve was to be Marcelin and Sebastien’s celebration, celebration of life, and of their confessions of love that had finally come in what they had all believed to be Enjolras’ last hours. Thankfully, it had gone another way, and Grantaire wondered idly, as he slid down Enjolras’ body to leave a trail of kisses along his hips, across his hollow stomach, and up his sides, his chest, his sternum, settling in the crook of his neck, where he lavished attention and affection, kissed here and sucking there, if their hasty admittance had aided in Enjolras’ recovery. Perhaps it had, or perhaps Grantaire was merely mad. The latter, he believed was the much more likely scenario. 

The painter felt himself growing hard at the noises his beloved made at his hand, and he slotted himself next to the blonde, his erection brushing against Marcelin’s milky thigh, and he reached a lithe hand up to stroke Grantaire’s olive cheek with long, slender fingers, “My darling...” Enjolras murmured, “Mon petite chou...my beautiful boy...”

Grantaire leaned into his touch, pressing his unshaven cheek further into Enjolras’ hand, “Je t’aime...je t’aime...” he murmured over and over.

“Sebastien...” Enjolras’ voice had grown breathy, heavy with desire, “Sebastien, I need you...”

“Marcelin, I...”

“You will not hurt me, my beautiful boy...I promise.”

Grantaire swallowed audibly, “Are you...are you sure?”

Enjolras merely nodded, and reached behind his head to hand Grantaire a small bottle of oil that sat on the nightstand beside the bed. The painter first slicked a few fingers, and pressed one into Enjolras’ entrance, his own cock twitching at even the thought of the tightness that he felt there, and at the peculiar way that Enjolras’ blonde eyelashes fluttered against his milky cheek; he probed his finger gently inside, before adding another and gently spreading them apart and back, apart and back, apart and back, scissoring them and causing Enjolras’ narrow hips to buck in pleasure. Grantaire once more pressed himself against Enjolras’ chest without breaking his rhythm and nibbled gently, sweetly at his lover’s collarbone, leaving a line of small pink marks across him.

“Mark me,” Enjolras murmured, “Tell them all what we did here tonight...”

Grantaire bit a little harder, not nearly hard enough to break that marble skin or to do real harm, but just hard enough sting, to thrill. He added a third finger, stretching Marcelin to what felt like his limit, and yet the blonde boy called out for, demanded more.

“You...Grantaire...Sebastien, I want you...”

“And you shall have me.”

“Need you. Need you inside me.”

“As you wish, my darling,” was Grantaire’s throat reply, and, ignoring (mostly) the sharp whine that echoed from Enjolras when he removed his fingers, he slicked his cock with the oil and tossed the empty bottle inside, lining himself up with Marcelin’s entrance and tentatively pressing inside. 

Enjolras whimpered and Grantaire froze, “Darling?”

“Keep going,” was all Enjolras could manage.

Grantaire moved inside him slowly at first, allowing Enjolras to adjust, to become used to the feeling of his lover inside him, so not to hurt him, but soon found a rhythm, listening to every command and every demand of the boy beneath him until he was inserted up to his hilt, their hips pressing together at the crescendo of each thrust.

Enjolras clenched around him and Grantaire slowed, delaying his satisfaction and grinning a bit in spite of himself. Enjolras was even more beautiful in his ecstasy, head thrown back, throat bared to the painter. He lowered himself down once more to nip and bite at the soft expanse of skin there, feeling Enjolras clench the hardest he had yet to and Grantaire felt his lover’s hardness growing sticky with pre-release between their bellies.

“Come for me,” he murmured, moving his lips to take an earlobe between his teeth, “Come for your Pylades, Orestes.”

He had only barely touched Enjolras’ when he let out a great cry and spilled himself all over Grantaire’s hand and middle. Seeing Enjolras in such a state, feeling him clench and moan beneath him brought Grantaire to his peak with only a moment’s notice, and he stilled, settled deep in his lover, unwilling to remove himself from his warmth.

Enjolras lay panting beneath him, mewling like a kitten. Such an odd and wonderful sight, the great revolutionary reduced to shivers.

Eventually, Grantaire, with one last, small moan, removed himself from Enjolras and pulled the smaller boy into his arms, nuzzling his face into his perfect blonde curls, “I love you so much...”

Tired, entirely contented blue eyes fluttered shut, “I love you too, Sebastien.”

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Merry Christmas, my darling baby boy.”

And there, held warm in each other’s arms, they drifted to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays dear! I hope you enjoyed it! -Lexi


End file.
